


scraping the bowl

by WingsOfTime



Series: ikael [15]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, Light Angst, Unresolved Conflict, kind of itchy, something of a relationship study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 17:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15976931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: Always make sure to free yourself before you help someone else.Or do neither.





	scraping the bowl

**Author's Note:**

> set some time after 3.2, and before stormblood.

It is almost as if the world is different. Clearer. Like everything is finally coming into focus, crystal sharp and icy cold, and all it had taken was Thancred being launched into the middle of the Dravanian hinterlands by means of a forbidden spell.

Or perhaps it is because of Ishgard itself. The city is tall and judgemental and unforgiving, and its grey stone walls feel like they are meant to enclose, to trap their people as prey. To keep out both cold and outsiders, Thancred knows realistically, but it is hard to look upon the city and its people and not at least see something of a prison.

His fellow Scions seem to have differing opinions on the matter. Alphinaud is too focused on the matter of his draconic friend to entertain the more romantic aspects of such a thing. Tataru seems to have blended in quite nicely with the locals—Thancred had spotted her at the tavern once, dancing and chatting and overall having quite a merry time. Y'shtola, of course, cannot _see_. Thancred does not know to what extent, but he would be a fool not to notice. One of the many prices they have paid for their misfortune, he supposes.

Ikael, for one, does not seem to mind Ishgard.

Thancred thinks he even likes the desaturated bleakness of their surroundings. He had spotted a smile, once, on a cold, snowy evening, when they had come in range of the music drifting from the grand cathedral. Perhaps Ikael has connected to the city, in a way.

And that would be an interesting factor, were Thancred to pay it any mind. Ikael. Thancred will admit that the most attention he pays to their Warrior of Light is when he is going about such… business, but there is that quiet sharpness to all of them now that makes him keener to observe than he used to be.

Alphinaud has said that Ikael is… angrier. Thancred does not see that, not quite. He does notice the newfound stiffness to his demeanor, but it seems to be locked in a strange sort of paradox. Sometimes, when they are doing what they must, it seems deeply rooted, bone-deep and weary. Other times, perhaps when there is a quiet moment of solitude, it seems thin as paper, liable to crumble into dust. Or be lit aflame and burn to ash.

It is a cold evening like all the others, and Ikael is staring, blank-faced, at a candle on his table. He is trying to light it, Thancred thinks, but not succeeding in the slightest. His fingers are sluggish and white, and there is a deep-set tension in the hunch of his shoulders; he is overall far too tense to correctly conjure up any sort of spark. Thancred wonders why he does not simply get a lighter.

“That is hardly an efficient practice,” he comments, approaching the table. Ikael looks up with a jerk, ears flattening back. Thancred raises an eyebrow at him, and settles a hand on his hip.

 “I do not think now is the time to decide that your talents lie in the realm of magic, Ikael,” he continues. “Ask one of the tavern maids to light it for you, for gods’ sake. If the Warrior of Light has enough time to try and light a candle with cold fingers, Ishgard should be thriving.”

Something jagged and almost emotional passes across Ikael’s face for a fleeting second, and then is gone.

“I was just trying to…” he says. Thancred signals for a barmaid.

“Yes, well, you weren’t trying very well, were you?” A match is struck and the candle is lit. Ikael’s fist clenches slowly as he stares at the newborn flame with something akin to helplessness.

“It is a bit chilly up here, isn’t it? I would ask you where to buy a good pair of gloves, but it seems as if you do not know.” Thancred sits down across from him. Ikael does not say anything; not unusual.

“A rather worried young man was from House Fortemps was asking where you were,” Thancred tells him, leaning back in seat. “I took it upon myself to act as a messenger. It was not too difficult to find you, you know. People here seem to keep track of the only miqo’te in the entire city.”

Ikael looks up at him. “House Fortemps?” he asks, and the distant apathy on his face seems to bend and fold in on itself. “Who… did he give you his name?”

Thancred shrugs. “He gave me neither his name nor his freedom for the evening,” he says, and winks. “Perhaps that was because he had some… arrangement with someone else? A certain monk, maybe?”

It almost feels odd to speak with another soul the same way he had… before. The words feel rusty, creaking not from his throat but from his mind, like it needs to be oiled back into function. They escape nonetheless, and Thancred is satisfied he can still manage them.

  Ikael’s brows draw together. “Not applicable, sorry,” he says quietly. “But I… should get going, if I am needed.”

Thancred quirks an eyebrow. “Of course,” he says dryly. “Do not let me delay your only schedule.”

Ikael nods at him without looking, and rather hastily makes to get up. His chair emits a sharp scraping noise and falls, with him still in it. He yelps, hurriedly scrambling up, and rights it, mumbling apologies to the people who have stopped to stare.

Thancred has to press his lips together to keep from smiling. He does not think it works, but Ikael is not looking at him, anyhow. Thancred watches as he jerks his sleeves down over his hands, ducks his head, and quickly exists the tavern.

Thancred pushes in their chairs and follows him.

Ikael’s steps are stiff and rushed. They reach the manor quickly, and then he is pressing trembling fingers to the cold frame of the door and heaving it open.

“Master Ikael!” cries a voice, and Thancred sees the man who had sent him scuttle forward. “What brings you here at such a late time? Are you all right?”

Ikael begins to frown. “Sebastian?” he says haltingly. “I… didn’t you call for me?”

He looks at Thancred, who nods. Yes, this is the same person. Ikael wraps his arms around himself and stands there, looking crooked and cold and rather confused.

Sebastian, apparently, shakes his head. “I did not,” he says. “I was simply wondering where you were staying for the night. We are supposed to get a blizzard, you know! Although it does not seem to have started yet, thank the Fury.”

“My apologies.” Thancred gives a short bow. “It seems my role as messenger was misplaced. Nevertheless, why not stay here for the night, Ikael? Surely you were not going to hole up in that miserable little inn.”

“I—” says Ikael. He looks pained. “I do not want to… put anyone out of their way…”

Thancred feels a flash of annoyance, and swallows it down. Ikael is not the only one who is cold, and Thancred is not fool enough to decline shelter when it is offered. Must they really do this dance?

“Nonsense!” Sebastian declares with a twirl of his wrist. “Your room is always free, Ikael. I will go get it prepared, as well as one for your friend. And I should alert the Count—surely he will be elated at your visit.”

“I-it’s late,” Ikael mumbles, watching helplessly as Sebastian gives a deep bow before walking away. “Sebastian…”

“Let him go.” Thancred waves a hand, moving towards the fireplace. “Best to accept hospitality when it is offered, recent events have taught me. Not to mention that it is frightfully cold outside—I would not wish it on any soul to be kept out in that weather when a warm hearth is readily available.”

“Are you cold?” Ikael’s voice is soft, and perhaps a little guilty. “Thancred…”

Thancred shrugs the comment off, not willing to engage in that particular conversation. A minute or so passes in silence. Ikael does not seem to want to join him by the fire, although by the look of his shivering, he could use the heat. After not too long, they hear the steady, muffled thumping of a cane on carpet.

“Ikael!” exclaims Count Edmont de Fortemps. Ikael’s eyes go wide, and his ears dip almost into his hair. “It is good to see you hale and whole! What brings you here on such a cold night?”

“I… uh…” Ikael’s tail curls around his legs. “I was just visiting. I am sorry for coming so late—I-I… do not wish to…”

He trails off awkwardly. Shivers a little.

“You look as if you are freezing.” Edmont begins, frowning deeply. He strides towards Ikael, leaning down and opening his arms. “Come, now.”

Something in Ikael’s face shifts and creases, and then he collapses forwards into the embrace like it is his salvation.

“You _are_ freezing,” Edmont states with a shake of his head. “Go sit down, and I will get some food and blankets sent in. We consider those blankets yours now, you know. No one else has used them since your stay here.”

Ikael mumbles something, but stumbles towards one of the long couches close to the fireplace. Thancred sits down opposite from him.

The Count comes back with Sebastian and a serving girl, who are carrying food (enough for a few people, easily) and blankets, respectively. Thancred cocks an eyebrow curiously—it seems as if Ikael has made quite an indent in the lifestyle of House Fortemps.

Sebastian sets the food tray down on the table as the girl shyly hands the blankets to Ikael. He burrows himself in them nearly immediately, cocooning himself and nosing at the fabric. He lets out a contented sigh as the servants excuse themselves, already reaching towards the food.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, and begins to scarf it down at a frankly alarming pace.

“Slow down,” Edmont tells him, sitting next to him. Ikael obliges, and nudges himself over until he is pressed up against Edmont’s side.

“You may partake as well if you wish, Master Thancred,” Edmont says. Thancred nods gratefully before taking a plate. _He_ has not eaten yet either.

They keep up rather pleasant conversation. Ikael even giggles once—a sound that is so odd coming from him it gives Thancred pause. Ikael finishes exactly half the food set out in record speed, and proceeds to immediately scoot himself closer to the count. Edmont laughs.

“Cold, starving, _and_ in need of complete possession of my personal space?” he jokes. “Are you truly being neglected that much?”

And then Ikael, smiling congenially, with all the gentleness and casualness of one who is absolutely, genuinely unaware of the intrinsic bitterness of his words, says, “The Scions have much higher priorities than my wellbeing.”

Thancred does not say much else for the rest of the night.

~*~

This time, there is no Ishgard, no food, and they are trying to barter for what little shelter there is available.

“Please,” Ikael is saying to the innkeeper. His voice is barely audible over the howling Coerthan blizzard beating violently against the building. “Please, anything you have available will be more than enough. I can pay twice the standard rate—we just need somewhere to room for the night.”

The innkeeper still looks highly reticent, although they tilt their head back at the mention of price. Finally, they let out a low grunt, and nod.

“Only one left,” they grumble, reaching into a drawer and taking out a key. “I don’t give my last room to outsiders lightly, y’hear? Money up front.”

Ikael is already stumbling over his thanks as he fishes in his coin purse. He pays out far more than Thancred would ever let go without haggling, and they follow the innkeeper’s directions to the room.

Ikael unlocks the door, looks in, and—pauses.

“Oh,” he says, very softly.

Thancred frowns, motioning Ikael aside so he can see. He glances around, sticking his head through the doorway.

 _Oh_ , indeed. The room is barely big enough for one person, let alone two. There is a small heating pit that takes up most of the space, a single chair, and a small, cramped-looking cot barely squeezed into the corner.

There is a pause as they both take this information in. Then Ikael breathes in, out, and looks up at Thancred.

“You take the room,” he says quietly. “I can find somewh—”

“No,” Thancred says. Absolutely not.

Ikael shakes his head. “I can go somewhere else, Thancred! I don’t think the two of us could _stand_ together in that room, let alone sleep in it. There’s no need to force you into that when you could have the room to yourself.”

“There’s a great swivving blizzard outside, if you haven’t noticed,” Thancred says sharply. Ikael knows as well as he does that there is nowhere else to go—they have searched as far as they could. “No one should be caught out in it. Is the Echo going to protect you against the elements themselves? We are sharing the room, Ikael, and that is _final_.”

Ikael’s ears dip at the last word. Thancred shoulders his way into the room before he can say anything more, and drops his pack on the ground.

After a moment, Ikael steps inside, closing the door. He leans down to start the fire.

A single plate of bland food is brought up after not too long. The girl who brings it looks confused that there are two of them. Thancred chooses to ignore her quick glance at the bed, and requests another meal.

“You’re that hungry?” Ikael asks softly, sitting on the cot.

Thancred rolls his eyes. “It’s for you, you idiot.”

Ikael’s ears flatten back. “Oh,” he mumbles.

Thancred also chooses to ignore that (as well as the small pulse of his conscience), and eats his food. The serving girl comes back soon enough, and Ikael accepts his own plate from her without a word, passing her a coin.

They eat in silence. Ikael is sitting on the chair, and is hunched inwards in such a way that it seems as if he is trying to avoid engaging with Thancred. That is fine—if he wishes to dwell on such things, he can. Thancred has neither the time nor the patience right now to straighten out a few crooked words.

He shifts, and the cot creaks. Thancred winces. He hopes Ikael does not move overmuch in his sleep—it would not do to be woken ever few minutes by as meager an enemy as the bedframe. Thancred glances around the ground, trying to plot out a space where he himself can sleep. At least that will be one easy issue to settle.

~*~

Thancred cannot believe that his first fight with Ikael since his return from the wilderness is about who gets to sleep on the _floor_.

“You’ve been sleeping outside for moons!” Ikael cries, throwing out a hand. He is becoming increasingly heated as they argue; more than he has been about anything for the past couple of weeks. “I’m not stealing your _bed_ from you!”

“It is not _my_ bed,” Thancred shoots back. “And do not be ridiculous! I am hardly the one whose physical wellbeing is a priority. I’ll be fine on the floor.”

“So will I!” Ikael’s mouth tugs downwards. “I’ve slept on _worse_ , Thancred—it’s not that big of a deal! I’m not taking the bed.”

“And what if you wake up the next morning with a sore back and cannot keep your forms steady for the next few days, hm?” Thancred crosses his arms, contesting Ikael’s expression with a scowl. He hates to play this card—hates that he has to mention it, but it might be the only way to get Ikael to listen. “What if Ishgard needs to rely on its saviour? What if people’s lives depend on you and you cannot keep yourself up to the task?”

Ikael’s ears flatten, and there is a beat before he answers. “I-I have done _fine_ so far,” he snaps. The scratchiness in his voice dips to something low and harsh. “I have done _fine!_ ”

The light in his eyes is quickly resembling something close to anger. Thancred has trod on sensitive territory, somehow. He shakes his head.

“Have you?” he asks, arching an eyebrow.

For a second the echo of a snarl passes across Ikael’s face, and then he jerks himself back. He lowers his head, shaking it.

“If you do not take the bed, I’ll leave,” he says, low and steady. “So either agree to it, or I will kick myself out.”

Thancred's mouth flattens, and he does not respond immediately. Ikael sounds… emotional, in some way, but completely, undeniably sincere. And Thancred cannot stop him from leaving if he truly wishes to.

“Fine,” he agrees finally. He is not happy with the situation, but he does not wish to test the limits of Ikael’s self-destruction.

They settle for the night. They have one bedroll between the two of them, apparently—Thancred's, so he tosses it at Ikael and lies facing away from him on the cot.

There is a small hiss, and then the room gives in to darkness. Thancred determinedly closes his eyes, evening his breathing to calm himself some. He does not appreciate being forced into a corner, pun unintended. He hears a few creaking footsteps, and then the very evident lack of any sound that would indicate Ikael has lain down.

“We… can share? If you’re really…” Ikael’s voice sounds nothing like before—he seems quiet, cautiously hesitant.

“No,” Thancred refuses immediately. After a moment of tense silence, he begrudgingly adds, “It is far too small, even if I _did_ want you to be shoved into my personal space for a whole night. Which I do not.”

More silence. Then a few more creaks, and a small sigh, close to the ground.

Ikael says nothing more. Thancred does not bid him goodnight.

~*~

Thancred awakens in the middle of the night, the learned restlessness of his senses combined with the nagging need to keep watch unable to let him rest. The blasted cot is also cramping him—he rolls on his back, and then, with a resigned grunt, onto his other side.

There is a sudden, startled silence, and Thancred quickly realizes from the lack of quiet noise that he has disturbed someone’s—Ikael’s?—current nighttime activity.

It _is_ Ikael, he realizes as his eyes adjust to the darkness. He is not lying down on the bedroll; rather, it seems he is sitting with his back to Thancred. His head is bent down at an odd angle and his tail, upon further inspection, is not missing, but wound around himself.

Thancred squints at him in the darkness. He is about to ask what in the hells Ikael is doing, when he hears a nearly silent, scratchy inhale.

Oh, Thancred realizes. He's crying.

Very, very quietly, it seems. It is nearly imperceptible, even with Thancred mere fulms away. Were he asleep, he would not have caught it at all. The significance of this is not lost on him, and for a moment he wonders how long this has been going on.

Then he inwardly shakes his head. Ikael’s problems… are not his.

… Still. Thancred…

Thancred… should try and go back to sleep. There is nothing he can do to soothe deeply-rooted hurts he knows nothing about.

He closes his eyes, and tries to convince himself of that.

~*~

When Thancred wakes up, it is to the smell of oatmeal.

He stretches out with a groan, cracking his back. He hears a worried, “Oh!” and then the smell gets a lot closer.

“Thancred?” an anxious voice inquires. Thancred opens his eyes and comes face to face with Ikael. He blinks at him, nonplussed.

Then a bowl is being thrust in his face. Thancred takes it automatically.

“I-I-I made you breakfast,” Ikael says, stepping away a reasonable distance, and then shuffling back a few fulms more. “Sorry—um, I’ll give you space. I just wanted to… I wanted to apologize for being so nasty to you last night. I-I won’t argue with you again. I’m sorry. You—I-I—you were right.”

Thancred does not have the awareness of mind right now to remember _what_ he was supposedly right about. He shrugs internally, and sticks a spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth.

Ikael has managed to acquire cinnamon, somehow. Perhaps he always carries such things with him, Thancred muses. He shrugs. “’Tis alright.”

Ikael’s face tightens minutely. “I-I… did I not put enough sugar? I am sorry… I do not have much. I can go down and see if I can find… I-I can fix that for you. If you’d like.”

He holds out his hands. They shake, very lightly.

Thancred had not been talking about the food at all, in fact—he’d meant Ikael's apology. He shakes his head.

“The oatmeal’s fine, Ikael,” he says, voice a bit bleary still. “Thank you.”

Ikael waits there with his hands outstretched for an awkward beat longer, then slowly retracts them. He goes to sit down on the chair.

Thancred's bedroll is neatly rolled up and set with his pack. Ikael’s boots are wet, and his fingers are pink. Thancred squints at the small window overlooking the wilderness. It is barely dawn; Ikael must have gotten up early.

“You had time to eat?” he inquires, half out of curiosity and half to make conversation.

There is a short pause. When Thancred looks up, Ikael is scanning him intensely.

“I-I… yeah,” he says, blinking rapidly when Thancred's gaze meets his. “I ate. Ishgard’s, ah… saviour, as you put it, will be… as dependable as he needs to be.”

A somewhat odd answer. Thancred says, “Hm,” and finishes his oatmeal. Ikael stares at the ground as he eats, picking at his sleeves. When Thancred's bowl is empty, he stands up.

“I’ll go wash that,” he says quietly. “I, um…”

He goes quiet, and takes the bowl and spoon. When he speaks again, his voice is trembling lightly.

“I… have to go run a few errands I was putting aside,” he says. “I shouldn’t have… Anyways. Never mind. If… if you need me, Thancred, please ask. And I…”

His gaze flits about before settling somewhere around Thancred's knees. “I… want to apologize again for how I… for how I spoke to you. Last night. And for… however I behaved that made you irritated. I know I can be… I-I won’t do it again, ever. I promise. I swear.”

And Thancred, for all his annoyance and his distractions and his willingness to ignore, is not _that_ obtuse. He can recognize that kind of talk for what it is. He says, “Ikael—”

“I-I have to go,” Ikael interrupts, jerkily picking up his pack and heading for the door. “I… call me if you need me, Thancred. Please.”

And he leaves, as if the hounds of the hells themselves are chasing at his heels. Thancred stares at the swinging door for a long moment. Then he moves to close it.

He packs up after a trip to the privy, and heads downstairs. He pauses as he passes by the inn’s kitchen, the slow drip of the sink drawing his attention. No one is inside yet, but the sink has dishes in it. Thancred steps closer, and sees a pot, a single bowl, and a spoon—all scrubbed clean, but still wet.

Thancred supposes Ikael must have been in a hurry. His gaze falls on a ratty dish towel hanging from a drawer handle, and for a moment he considers it. But then, with a shake of his head, he steps away.

Best not risk the chance of being caught in someone else’s kitchen. And besides, Thancred cannot clean up other people’s messes before he sorts out his own.

~*~


End file.
